Life assumed a new rhythm for Boromir after that
ghastly feast. The Orcs took a fancy to their princely captive and
called nightly for him to join their revels. Uglúk indulged them often
enough that Boromir grew almost accustomed to these tests of his patience
and humility. He sang his soldier's songs, he endured the taunting
of the Orcs, he withstood their occasional blows, and he grew to understand
what they expected of him.

A show of resistance, a flash of haughtiness, followed
by reluctant submission; it was a simple pattern, once he found it.
So long as he neither fought too hard nor capitulated too easily,
the Orcs did him no lasting harm and sent him back to his meager bed
with a chorus of half-affectionate jeers and blows. Their greatest
pleasure came from watching Boromir kneel before them to lap food
from a bowl on the floor. They offered him porridge, dried horse flesh
and iron-hard bread that crumbled into dust in his mouth, but no man-flesh.
And though his gorge rose at the indignity of it, as much as at the
grim fare, he forced himself to eat, while the Orcs screamed and stamped
and threw refuse at him in an excess of mirth.

Humility came hard to Boromir, but where he could
not bow to the might of his captors, he could bow to necessity. He
lived by Uglúk's sufferance. The moment that Uglúk decided his interests
were better served by feeding Boromir to his troops than by keeping
him chained in a cave, Boromir would meet an ignominious end in the
bellies of the Uruk-hai. And the more loudly those troops clamored
for a princely meal, the more inclined Uglúk might be to give it them.
So Boromir swallowed his pride, swallowed his lumpy porridge, and
gave the Orcs what they wanted.

In the quiet of the inner cave, while the Uruks slept
off their drink or labored in Saruman's tunnels, Boromir rested, pondered
his fate and dreamed of home. This part of his life remained much
the same, but it took on a new importance to him, a new comfort, when
contrasted to the base torments of his time in the great cavern.

Uglúk applauded his good sense in surrendering to
the Orcs' demand and eating what was given him, but he did not force
Boromir to repeat the performance in the privacy of the inner cave.
Quite the contrary, he treated the Man with a more pronounced respect
than before and left off baiting him with hints of conquest or threats
of a gruesome death. Boromir gathered, from comments casually dropped,
that Uglúk was striking as fine a balance as Boromir himself in dealing
with his troops – giving them enough of their pet Princeling's company
to keep them happy, without allowing them to grow bored or to harm
him with their rough play. Boromir was grateful for his care but confused
by his own gratitude, and troubled by thoughts of what new horrors
the Orcs might concoct should watching him lap up his food like a
beast grow commonplace.

Of the other captives, he learned little. The men
returned to the cavern only once, and on that night Boromir was not
called upon to perform for the Orcs. Éofal sang for them, while Boromir
lay in his fetid prison and let the young man's voice – now no more
than a ragged and strained remnant of itself – conjure visions in
his head of Rohan's plains, of horses running free beneath the sky,
and of water dancing in the moonlight. His throat ached as if he had
himself sung the night through, but it was tears that choked him,
not a tune. And he was both sorry and glad when the young Rider at
last fell quiet.

The Rohirrim returned to their labors in the southern
tunnels with the Orcs' waking, and Boromir heard no more of them.
Only Borlas remained, and the boy had grown so quiet in the last weeks
that Boromir was often struck by the fear that he had died, alone
in his pen, and gone into the stewpot without ceremony. Then a cough
or a childish cry of distress would reach his ears, and he would know
that Borlas lived. For the present.

Boromir tried often to bring his fellow captives
to Uglúk's notice, but the wily Orc would have none of it. When Boromir
spoke of them, he turned the subject, made mention of how tasty Man-flesh
was and how he looked forward to his next such meal, or stomped out
of the cave, tossing a curse at Boromir as he went. The Orcish tongue
had few subtleties in it, but it boasted more ways to curse, threaten
or revile than any language of Man or Elf, and Boromir had by this
time learned most of them. While he made no progress in his plan to
soften Uglúk toward his other prisoners, he did expand his vocabulary
in colorful ways.

It had been more than a week, by Boromir's count,
since the Riders' last appearance in the cavern when he tried yet
again to bring them to Uglúk's notice. Boromir had spent a particularly
grueling few hours in the main cavern the night before, then collapsed
on his pallet to sink into fitful slumber, tormented by the pain in
his leg and evil dreams. Now he sat with his back to the wall, his
head propped wearily against rough stone, and listened to the Orc
mutter under his breath as he tended the stubborn wound.

Uglúk took it as a personal affront that the gash
in the Man's leg refused to heal, though he had predicted as much
himself. He slapped a poultice over it more roughly than usual, and
he laughed harshly when Boromir flinched. But his amusement did not
last, and he was soon growling to himself again in his own tongue.

"'Tis the kneeling opens it," Boromir commented,
when Uglúk paused for breath. "Each time I bend my knee, it tears
the wound afresh."

The Orc snorted. "A prince's knees are not made
to bend, eh?"

"You see how I bend them," Boromir snapped,
unable to keep the bitterness from his words, "and how I debase
myself at your command."

"The lads must have their fun."

"A commander who must bribe his troops with
entertainments and addle their wits with drink to keep them in line
is no true leader."

Uglúk paused, his clawed hand poised above Boromir's
leg as though undecided whether to bandage or rend it, then he chuckled
and gave the Man a playful slap to the face that rocked his head to
one side and started his ears ringing. "Mind your tongue, little
soldier, or I'll tear it out and make a snack of it."

Boromir was now certain that such threats held no
real danger for him, but he felt his innards twist with a familiar
revulsion at the picture this conjured in his head. "Have a care,
Uglúk. If you take my tongue, you will have to bring Éofal to sing
in my place and lose his strong back in the southern caves."

"Éofal?" the Orc asked, curious. "Who
is this Éofal?"

"The youth with the voice of a woodland Elf."

"Pah!" Uglúk spat noisily and growled,
"The name is as milky and mewling as the whiteskin who wears
it. It sours my mouth."

Boromir controlled the urge to smile at his outburst.
He had caught Uglúk unawares, betrayed him into showing an interest
in his prisoners, and they both knew it. Keeping his voice mild, with
no hint of triumph in it, Boromir said, "I have heard him singing
for your lads, as he did around our campfires of a night, and wondered
how it is the mighty Uruk-hai prefer my caterwauling to his melodies."

"He yowls like a scalded cat. I'd have cooked
him long ago and spared us his screeching, but he has no more meat
on him than an old boot."

"He reminds me of my brother," Boromir
mused, improvising madly as he went, "more scholar than soldier,
but with an arm that could skewer an oak with his lance. Of a proud
family, an ancient bloodline among his people, full of wisdom and
music and tales of far lands."

"Now he is a slave," Uglúk retorted, "and
the Uruk-hai will sweat the tales out of him."

"Éofal, son of Éodred. Rider of Westfold."
Boromir spoke the words quietly, but both Man and Orc felt the force
of the challenge in them.

"I say he is a slave,"
Uglúk snarled, leaping to his feet with the scrape of stiff leather
and the rasp of metal, "and Orc fodder!" Bending close to
Boromir, so that his foul breath burned the Man's face, he hissed,
"Give him what name you will, Princeling, but it is the name
Uglúk gives him that will stick! Slave!"

With that, the Orc strode
out of the cave, leaving Boromir alone, with his leg unbandaged and
his mind in turmoil.

*** *** ***

Aragorn reined in at the
top of the hill and gazed down the long, folded valley below, eyes
narrowed against the dying light. Rain had fallen steadily through
the day's ride, and only now, as the wind freshened and blew streamers
of cloud away to the south, did the last rays of sunlight touch the
empty land about them. That same wind lifted a long, spiraled column
of smoke from the trees at the valley's foot, nearly a league distant,
and carried it south toward the Gap of Rohan.

Aragorn watched the smoke
in silence, wondering what it presaged. Beside him, Legolas leapt
from Arod's back and trod lightly to the very lip of the hill, where
the rain-soaked earth threatened to give way. Lifting a hand to shield
his eyes from the glare to the west, he peered intently into the thickening
shadows.

"'Tis a campfire,
I deem," Faramir said, from where he sat his horse to Aragorn's
left. "Or mayhap a herdsman's cot."

Aragorn nodded absently,
his gaze still fixed on the distant smoke. "This uncertain light
plays tricks on my eyes. What see you, Legolas?"

"Flame through the
trees," the Elf answered, "and horses. A mounted company."

"The Rohirrim!"
Faramir exclaimed.

"Or a band of brigands,"
Aragorn cautioned, "camped in this wild place where they need
not conceal their presence."

"Nay, Aragorn, look!"
Legolas turned to the King, his face alight with joy, and flung out
an arm to point at the valley's foot. "A standard lifts on the
wind!"

"I have not your
long eyes, Master Elf. What standard?"

"There, at the edge
of the trees. Grass green and white! The running horse of Rohan!"

A smile lit Aragorn's
face, full of relief and a weary, ragged hope. "Éomer King has
not failed us."

"Gimli would not
allow it," Legolas retorted. He turned and crossed to where Arod
stood, leaping easily to the beast's high back. "Come, my king,
let us make haste."

* * *

It was nearly midnight
when the King's Company rode at last from the valley and reached the
perimeter of the horsemen's camp. The light of their torches had alerted
the Rohirrim to their coming, and a pair of sentries stood forth to
bar their way, swords drawn and silver helms glinting in the firelight.
More men watched from beside the enormous fire at the center of the
camp.

Roheryn stepped tiredly
up to the nearest guard and halted, his proud head drooping. The man
looked from the exhausted horse to the grim-faced rider on his back
and snapped to attention.

"I charge you, in
the name of Éomer King, halt and be recognized!"

Aragorn smiled mirthlessly.
"I am Aragorn Elessar, King of Gondor and Arnor, who rides with
Faramir, Prince of Ithilien and Legolas of Henneth Annûn in haste
to find Gimli, Glóin's son of Aglarond."

Both sentries bowed before
the duly recognized King, then the speaker straightened and said,
"The Dwarf is here, my Lord Elessar. You will find him in the
Marshal's tent."

"Who commands your
company?"

"'Tis Elfhelm, my
lord."

"We would speak with
him at once."

"Aragorn!" Gimli
strode through the gathered Riders, shouldering their taller forms
aside so he could reach the King. "Aragorn, by all that's holy!
How came you here so swiftly? Has the Elf sprouted wings, that he
flew all the way to Rivendell and back?"

Legolas sprang down from
Arod's back and stepped forward to greet his friend, smiling at the
sight of him in spite of his troubled heart. "Aye, Gimli. Did
you not know that the Elves of Mirkwood can fly at need?" He
dropped to one knee and embraced the Dwarf warmly.

"You come in good
time, Master Elf," Gimli said, as they moved apart. "I am
right glad to see you, and Aragorn. Ah, Aragorn, we have sorely missed
your sharp eyes and huntsman's skill."

"They are at your
service, Master Dwarf." Aragorn dismounted and handed his reins
to Bergil, who hovered at Faramir's shoulder. Then he nodded graciously
to the Rider who stood at Gimli's side. "Marshal Elfhelm. I must
beg your hospitality for my company. We have no tents to pitch, but
we need fodder for our horses and a patch of ground on which to spread
our cloaks, for we have ridden far and are sorely in need of rest."

"You shall have all
that and more, King Elessar. You are most welcome!"

* * *

Elfhelm's tent was neither
so large nor so comfortably appointed as the one Aragorn had abandoned
on the road south, but it had a large brazier for warmth and enough
stools for the King, Queen and Lady Éowyn. Legolas sat cross-legged
on a fur rug, with Gimli beside him, and Faramir stood at his lady's
back. Elfhelm had rolled back a rug to expose the ground beneath and
used his dagger's point to scratch a map in the dirt.

"The Steward's party
was attacked here," he drew a circle in the dirt with his dagger,
"some mile to the north and east of this camp. We have searched
all the ground from that point east, to this high ridge," he
drew a line running parallel to the mountains' feet, "but have
found no trace of the Orcs' passage save some trampled thorn bushes
and a piece of discarded leather that looks to have come from a horse's
tack. They must have taken the horses with the men, for no beasts
were found, dead or alive, and we had hoped to track them by their
hoofprints. But alas, the rains have destroyed all sign of horse,
Orc or Man."

"You are certain
of the place of ambush?" Aragorn asked.

"Aye. There can be
no doubt that the Steward and his escort made camp there among the
trees, picketing their horses nearby. They had leisure enough to light
fires, prepare a meal, and spread their bedrolls upon the ground.
All of their gear that had no value to the plundering Orcs remains,
scattered and broken, trampled into the mud by their foul feet, but
still there for us to find."

"There were no bodies?"
Éowyn asked, her voice low and intent. "No dead to bury?"

Elfhelm threw her a somber
glance and answered, "Nay, lady."

Éowyn bowed her head.
She, like all those gathered in the tent, knew that the absence of
dead did not mean that all the Riders had survived the Orcs' attack,
or that any of them yet lived. It only confirmed what they all had
feared, that the Orc band had come west in search of more than plunder.

"You have kept Boromir's
camp undisturbed, have you not?" Aragorn said into the grim silence.

The Marshal nodded, eager
to turn the subject and be back on familiar ground. "Aye, lord.
It is ringed about with lances, and we have held the éored
to the south of it. The Dwarves are camped here," he stabbed
at the ground with his dagger once more, "hard by the ridge."

Gimli leaned forward to
peer at the map. "That ridge is bare stone, but for a few hardy
brambles and an overgrown gully, cut by a stream that flows down
from the mountains' feet. We have combed it for some telltale mark
of orcish boots or horses' hooves but found naught. At daybreak, I
mean to take the Dwarves farther east, up the slopes of the mountains.
If the Orcs have left no trail to guide us, we must find the door
ourselves."

Aragorn stared long at
the map, considering, then he sat back and let his gaze scan their
faces. "Gimli's plan may well be our best hope, but I would ask
that he wait one day more. At first light, Legolas and I will search
Boromir's camp. The eyes of Rangers and Elves may find what others
could not. But if, as Elfhelm states, all trace of the Orcs' trail
is lost, then we must rely on the craft of the Dwarves to find a way
beneath the mountains."

A long silence met his
words, broken at last when Arwen said, "'Tis the path we all
knew we must tread in the end."

At that, Aragorn smiled.
"I have traveled such paths before and fear not death or darkness."
He looked to Legolas and Gimli, the smile lingering in his eyes. "Are
you, my companions of old, with me in this?"

Legolas nodded. "As
in all things, my king."

"Just you try to
hold me back!" Gimli exclaimed. "It is the Dwarves who will
lead the way!"

"And you will have
the Men of Gondor and Ithilien at your back, Master Gimli," Faramir
interjected. "Mayhap the hardy Dwarves of Aglarond will be glad
of our bright swords, when they beard the beasts in their den."

"We will, indeed,
Prince Faramir. This is no contest of strength between Men and Dwarves,
but a dire quest with an uncertain end, and I, for one, am thankful
for every sword, axe, bow and knife that will brave it with me."

Aragorn rose abruptly
to his feet, quieting the banter of his companions. "That is
well, but not every Man and Dwarf may go with us, though all were
willing. And some there are among us," he shot a speaking glance
at Arwen and Éowyn, "who must needs bow to their king's command
and stay behind. We will talk of this again tomorrow, when I have
seen Boromir's camp and studied the lay of the land. Until then, we
must all take our rest and prepare for the day to come."

Legolas waited only to
be sure that Aragorn had no more commands or thoughts to share with
him, then he slipped out of the tent while the Men were sorting out
their sleeping quarters. He strode through the camp, skirting the
great fire that burned at its center, throwing sparks up at the stars,
to the edge of the clearing. At his feet the ground fell away into
a deep gully filled with the gurgle of a running stream. Above him
loomed the Misty Mountains, a huge, ominous shadow, blotting out the
sky to the east and breathing cold down upon the creatures huddled
at their feet.

He tilted back his head
and closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of wet grass and burning wood.
The night was cold but clean, and lovely in its loneliness. Legolas
felt a curious sense of peace, though he knew that peril and cruel
disappointment likely awaited him with the dawn. He had no illusions
that he and Aragorn could find clues to Boromir's fate in the weeks-old,
rain-washed tatters of the camp. Nor did he think it likely that they
would find a way into the Orcs' tunnels without much labor and luck.
In days such as these, with Men growing stronger and the foul beasts
of the Shadow all dead, fled or in hiding, the Orcs would not dare
to leave their doors unbarred, and Aragorn had no Gandalf with him
to open orcish locks.

It would be a hard day,
Legolas deemed. It would bring much pain to all those who loved Boromir
and who had looked with hope on Aragorn's coming. But for all his
dire predictions, the Elf could not but hope, himself. He could not
but believe that together he, Gimli and Aragorn would find their lost
friend and bring him safely from his dark prison.

"Thinking of the
last time we ventured beneath those dour peaks, were you?"

Legolas smiled down at
the Dwarf. He had listened to Gimli's noisy progress through the camp
for some minutes, waiting for him to approach, glad of his company
and his gruff, familiar voice beside him in the lonely night. "Nay,
Gimli. I was thinking of another chase, when we pursued the Uruk-hai
across all the leagues of Rohan to save our friends."

Gimli gave a grunt of
humorless laughter. "Neither memory is of much comfort tonight."

Legolas turned his gaze
once more to the velvet canopy above, where stars glittered like gems
from between the ragged trails of cloud. "Take comfort in the
light of Ëarendil and the music the stars weave as they dance."

"Boromir likes the
stars."

"He hears their song.
So too might you, if you would but listen."

"Elvish nonsense."
There was no conviction in his taunt, and Legolas smiled to hear it.

"Do the stones of
the mountain's root sing to you, Gimli, as you labor in your carven
halls?"

"Aye. Deep and rich
is their song, like the voice of the very earth itself." He shot
Legolas a sideways glance and added, slyly, "You too might hear
it. If you would but listen."

They fell into a companionable
silence, each letting his thoughts turn toward the Misty Mountains
and the task that faced them on the morrow, until Gimli's voice startled
Legolas out of a deep reverie.

"I am glad you are
here, Master Elf. Loath as I am to admit it, I do not relish that
dark road."

"Nor do any of us."

"I made a vow, to
Boromir and to myself, that I would bring him home to Minas Tirith,
and I mean to keep it. But I know not how." He shook his head,
eyes dwelling sadly on the great shadow before them. "I know
not how."

*** *** ***

Uglúk did not return to
the inner cave all that day. Boromir heard him bellowing orders at
Borlas until the boy whimpered in fear, but soon after, he left the
main cavern and disappeared into the bowels of the mountain. Left
uncovered, the poultice on Boromir's leg dried and crumbled away,
and the wound began to throb afresh. Boromir had neither food nor
water, the pain in his leg kept him from rest, and the nagging fear
that he had blundered in his handling of Uglúk filled the lonely hours
with doubt.

The venom in the Orc's
parting words had both surprised and unsettled Boromir. He had come
to know Uglúk well in these past weeks, come to rely on his intelligence
and believe that he could predict his choices. But now he feared that
he had pushed Uglúk too far and done his fellows more harm than good
in bringing them forcibly under the Orc Chieftain's eye. He could
not know this for certain until he read the Orc's mood a second time,
after his rage had cooled, but Uglúk gave him no such opportunity.

He could do naught but
wait, and wait he did, until the tramping of iron-shod feet and the
raucous cries of Orcs told him that the long day was ending at last.
They came as they always did, chanting and shouting, hurling jests
and insults at one another. Boromir strained his ears for some sound
that would betray the Riders' presence among them, and was both frustrated
and relieved to hear none. Then he heard the sickening sound of a
body striking the floor, and clearly beneath the clamor of the Orcs,
a boy's voice cry out in horror.

His stomach felt suddenly
hollow, and his throat constricted painfully. There could be no mistaking
it, now that he let himself hear: the note of excitement in the Orcs'
voices, the eagerness with which they poured into the cavern, laughing
and howling with glee. They were preparing a feast. Another Rider
had fallen.

Boromir's gorge rose at
the thought, and a chill sweat broke out all over his body. They would
come for him, he knew, when the pot bubbled and the wine flowed. Uglúk
would come for him and thrust him into the middle of that drunken,
slavering mob, and then they would force him to share their vile fare.
Or they would try.

"Smartly now, lads,"
Uglúk called, his voice carrying easily over the din, "put the
flasks over there and stoke up the fire! Ghasha, fetch water."

Feet trampled about the
cavern, weapons clattered as Orcs shed their harness, and glass clinked
against stone to the accompaniment of sloshing sounds. Boromir guessed
that they had brought some of the best from Saruman's private cellars
to wash down their meal. Uglúk continued to shout commands, while
Borlas sobbed quietly in his lonely pen, just outside the curtain.
Boromir lay on his filthy, rumpled cloak, breathing deeply, struggling
to quiet his racing pulse and prepare himself for the battle of wills
to come.

"Here now, gently,
lads!" Uglúk roared. "He's special, that one."

Boromir stiffened, his
head lifting from the floor and his blind eyes turning instinctively
toward the doorway. An icy finger of dread trailed down his back.

Boromir did not hear Dúrbhak's
answer. The pounding of his own blood in his ears drowned out all
else, and bile rose, thick and sour, in his throat. "What have
I done?" He gasped. "Sweet Valar, what have I done?"

He let his head drop forward
and pressed his forehead into the rough, cold stone. He was shaking,
his body wracked with sobs he could not utter, and the breath tore
at his lungs. A dreadful, animal cry of pain forced its way past his
clenched teeth. His ruined eyes shed no tears, but in his heart, where
he knew that he had brought this doom upon a trusting companion, he
wept scalding tears of grief and shame.

Uglúk came for him, just
as Boromir had known he would. An uncounted time later, he heard the
slap of Uglúk's hand against the leather curtain, and the Orc chieftain
strode into the chamber. He halted, towering over Boromir's huddled
form, and laughed scornfully.

"Time to play, little
soldier."

Boromir gave no sign that
he heard.

Uglúk uttered another
sour laugh and knocked the pin that anchored Boromir's tether from
the wall with a few swift strokes of his hammer. Then he grabbed his
prisoner by his bound arms and hauled him to his feet. Catching the
tether just where it passed through Boromir's collar, he wrapped it
twice about his fist. The bite of iron and rope about his throat held
the wounded Man upright, as Uglúk marched him toward the main cavern.

Uglúk thrust Boromir roughly through the curtain.
Stinking hide struck Boromir in the face. He staggered and would have
fallen, but a horny hand caught and steadied him. Then Uglúk had him
by the tether again, dragging him forward to his wonted place before
the fire.

Boromir stumbled after his tormentor, awash in pain,
sickness and horror. His mind refused to accept the evidence of ears
and nose. His body refused to obey his commands. The stench of cooking
meat filled the cavern, choking him. His innards roiled, his gorge
rose, and each step sent jagged shards of agony through his leg and
body. In such a state, he hardly noticed when Uglúk let go his tether
and stepped away, leaving him to face the mob of jeering, shrieking
Orcs alone.

"A song!" Snaga shouted. "Give us
a song!"

It was the usual pattern, the familiar ritual, and
for a precarious moment, Boromir teetered on the brink of giving in,
of giving them what they wanted and playing the humbled princeling
for them yet again. But even as he opened his mouth to sing, a wave
of black fury rose in him, strangling his voice before it passed his
lips.

Boromir felt no fear in him, only horror at what
his meddling had done and a cold determination never to dance to Uglúk's
piping again, though it cost him his life. Something of his thoughts
must have shown in his face, for when he turned to Uglúk, he heard
the chieftain's hissing intake of breath, even through the shouting
and howling of the other Orcs. Uglúk hesitated for the space of a
heartbeat, then he stepped forward, boots crunching ominously on stone.

"Sing!" he snarled, and now there
was no laughter in him.

Boromir held his defiant, challenging pose for one
moment more, then he turned very slowly back to face his audience
and opened his mouth. The words came to him unbidden, forming on his
lips as the remembered sound of his brother's voice filled his head.
They were beautiful words, charged with power and emotion, and in
that lightless, hopeless place, they seemed to him the very music
of the stars he loved.

"A Elbereth Gilthoniel,
silivren penna míriel
o melen aglar elen…"

A shattering howl of rage cut through his song, and
an iron hand struck him full in the face. The blow sent Boromir flying.
He landed on his back in a heap of refuse, smashing several empty
wine flasks as he fell. His ears rang and his mouth filled with blood,
and somewhere in the distance, he heard Borlas screaming. More blood
ran from the wound in his leg, torn open yet again by the fall, and
from the places where shards of glass dug into his back and shoulders.
The cavern echoed with curses, shrieks, and the clash of weapons hastily
drawn, as Orcs milled about in a frenzy of rage.

Uglúk roared an order in his own tongue, then lashed
out at Boromir, striking him in the face again. Boromir gasped but
did not cry out.

A booted foot smashed into Boromir's side, and he
doubled up in pain, his body shying away from the blow though his
mind told him to be still. Uglúk lashed out again, hissing, "I'll
tear your guts out with my bare hands and hang you up by them for
the crows to peck at!"

Boromir fought to control his reaction, biting down
on his bloodied lip to smother his cry and clutching at the rubble
beneath him. His hand closed about a large, curved piece of glass
so tightly that its edges cut into his fingers and his grip grew slippery
with blood.

"I'll teach you to spit Elvish in my face, you
worm," Uglúk snarled, as he fastened a hand in Boromir's shirt
and hauled him away from the ground. Without waiting for Boromir to
find his feet, the Orc began dragging him bodily through the cavern.
"Filthy little rat! Elvish dog!"

Overcome by his own fury, he lifted Boromir in both
hands and flung him away. Boromir struck metal and wood – a fence
or wall of some kind – and his flying body crashed through it. He
fell to the ground, feeling wood snap and splinter beneath him, then
small hands clutched at his clothing and Borlas' voice cried, "My
lord! Oh, my lord, do not leave me, I pray you!"

"Nay, Borlas…"

Uglúk's hand fastened in Boromir's shirt once more,
hauling him away from the shattered wall of the pen. Boromir tried
to find some words of reassurance for the terrified boy, but he had
none to give. Still fighting to gain his feet, to leave the cavern
with some vestige of dignity, Boromir clutched at the shard of glass
in his right hand and gritted his teeth against the tearing agony
in his leg. The sound of Borlas' weeping followed him through the
curtain and into the smaller cave.

They were back in his private prison cell, and still
Uglúk had not noticed the awkward, makeshift blade in Boromir's hand.
It was too small for a weapon, with no blunt edge to grasp, but Boromir
clung fiercely to it as if to the hilt of a sword, some corner of
his mind daring to hope that he would find a time and place to use
it.

"Don't get too comfortable," Uglúk snapped,
as he tossed Boromir down on his cloak. "And don't think I'm
going to forget this."

Boromir fell hard on his wounded leg and rolled sharply
onto his back, stifling a cry of pain. Uglúk stooped over him, his
breath hot on Boromir's face.

"I've let you off easy. Treated you well. And
this is how you thank me?"

"You killed that boy!"

"He was mine to kill!" A clawed
hand fastened under Boromir's chin, pushing it up and choking off
his breath. "You forgot that, didn't you, my Lord Steward?"

The Orc's grip eased just enough for Boromir to speak,
and he gasped out, "How could I? You have never let me forget
what I am."

"A Prince? A lord of Men? Pah!"
Uglúk spat in Boromir's face, then jerked his hand contemptuously
away, letting the Man's head crack against the stone floor. Suddenly,
talons raked across Boromir's shoulder, catching at his shirt and
the chain that hung around his neck. "I'll have this off of you,
too! Princely airs and Elvish trinkets!"

"Nay!" Boromir cried in protest.

Uglúk wrenched at the chain, growling in mingled
pain and fury at its touch, until it snapped. Then he flung it away.
Boromir heard the gem strike wood on the far side of the cave. Uglúk
snatched up the pin that anchored Boromir's tether to the wall and
began pounding it into the stone.

At the familiar sound of metal on metal, heralding
another endless time of imprisonment and humiliation, a howl of pure
rage burst from Boromir. Without thought for his own peril in that
moment, he rolled sharply onto his side and threw his body backward,
snapping the rope taut and tearing the pin from the wall. Uglúk snarled
a curse and grabbed the rope. Boromir tried to scramble away, to gain
his feet, but his wounded leg failed him. He rose to one knee, then
Uglúk gave the rope a vicious tug, and Boromir found himself sprawled
on the floor with the Orc's boot planted on his shoulder and his bruised
cheek ground into the stone floor.

"Curse you for a coward, Uglúk," he panted,
as his jailor knotted one fist in his tether and hauled him bodily
over to the wall. "You slaughtered that boy out of fear!"

"I'd do the same for you and gladly," Uglúk
spat, "but that would ruin all my fun. I want you to die by inches,
howling like the cur you are."

"I am Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor
and Prince of Anórien," Boromir said through clenched teeth.
"Put a sword in my hand, and I will prove it on your twitching
corpse!"

"You are a piece of filthy, stinking man-flesh,
blind and weak and worthless!" Uglúk wielded his hammer once
again, driving the pin into the wall in three mighty strokes.

"Blind and weak I may be, but I spitted Lugdush
on his own knife easily enough."

Uglúk's hand shot out to fasten in Boromir's hair,
wrenching his head back. His voice was an evil hiss in the darkness,
heavy with malice and the promise of vengeance. "I haven't forgotten."
Then, with a final blow and a snarled curse, the Orc was gone, stamping
away to join his fellows at the feast.

Boromir lay where Uglúk had left him, breathing hard
and fighting to subdue his futile rage. He could not free himself
with threats nor save his comrades with cursing. Chains bound him,
rope tethered him, and a small army of Orcs waited for him on the
other side of the hide curtain. Naught had changed for the Steward
of Gondor, and yet, everything had changed. For Boromir held in his
hand a weapon of sorts, and he nursed in his heart a furious resolve
to be free this night or to die. To find his way back to open sky
and the world of Men, or to sink into the never-ending blackness where
shame, pain and sorrow could not find him. He did not have Aragorn's
Star to guide him now, but Boromir had dwelt in darkness long enough
to know that he could do without light.

He would find a way.

*** *** ***

"Here, Legolas, do you see? And here."
Aragorn crouched low, his face only a hand span from the ground, his
eyes intent on the fragments of glass embedded in the dirt. "And
the grass is scorched, as well."

"There are such pieces all about the camp,"
Elfhelm said. "Broken bottles, I deem, though I know not why
the Steward should carry wine bottles in his saddlebags."

"He did not," Legolas said, absently, as
he studied the pattern of glass and scorch marks upon the ground.
"Boromir drinks sparingly and is too skilled a campaigner to
weigh himself down with bottles. This is passing strange, Aragorn.
These bottles were not dropped or crushed, but burst asunder by some
great force."

"Aragorn!" The King turned at the call
to see his lieutenant, Arahael, hurrying toward him. The grey-clad
Ranger held something cradled in his palm, which he held out to Aragorn
as he rose to his feet. "What make you of this?"

Aragorn looked down at the piece of thick, greenish
glass in Arahael's hand, frowning. "From the vineyards of Lossarnach,
by the look of it. Only the river sands of the Anduin produce glass
of that color."

"Aye, but this did not hold wine, my lord."

Aragorn threw him a sharp glance and took the shard
from his hand to study it more closely. As he turned it before his
eyes, he saw a sheen of oily color upon it and caught traces of an
acrid, strangely familiar scent.

"I found it in the brambles, yonder," Arahael
explained, "lodged among the branches, protected from much of
the rain."

Aragorn held it carefully by the edges, so as not
to wipe the traces of liquid from it, and breathed deeply of the smell.
It caught at the back of his throat, making him cough and his eyes
burn. "I know this stink. The dungeons of Isengard were rank
with it."

"Isengard!" Legolas stepped swiftly forward
and bent his head to bring it closer to the piece of glass. One breath,
and he recoiled sharply, a grimace of disgust upon his face. "Aye.
'Tis the Wizard's sorcery, indeed."

"Saruman is dead," Gimli insisted, thumping
the haft of his axe upon the ground to underscore his words. "His
staff was broken, his power spent, and his fortress destroyed by the
Ents."

"Yet Orthanc remains," Elfhelm cautioned.

"Its dungeons flooded and its doors guarded
by the Onodrim of Fangorn," Aragorn said. "No creature may
enter the tower without Fangorn's leave, and who is left to wield
Saruman's power, should he find it?"

"'Twas Orcs that attacked Fedranth," Legolas
assured him. "I saw their marks upon his body myself. I doubt
not that Boromir was waylaid by Orcs, or that they have taken him
into the mountains."

"Nor do I, Legolas, but how do Orcs come by
such weapons?"

"Call you this a weapon?" Elfhelm asked.
"I see only a piece of broken glass."

"The stuff this bottle held can burst into flame
on the instant," Legolas said, grimly. "I watched it set
Ents to burning like torches and smelled it in their smoking wounds.
I know not what to call it, but I know that it is foul and dangerous."

"And the Wizard made it, you say?"

"Aye."

"Then might not the Wizard's Orcs know how to
wield it?"

Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli all turned to gaze at
the Rider in silence, their faces betraying their dismay. It was Arahael
who spoke first, breaking the spell that held them.

"Did not all Saruman's creatures perish in the
flood?"

Aragorn swallowed once to clear the tightness from
his throat and rasped out, "Nay. Not all."

"Uglúk," Gimli growled.

"What is Uglúk?" Arahael asked.

"Captain of the Uruk-hai, a cursed Orc, and
the canniest of that breed ever to foul the air of Middle-earth!"
In a sudden burst of fruitless rage, Gimli hurled his axe to the ground
and raised a fist to shake it at the silent peaks gazing down at him.
"A plague take you, Boromir! How many times must we pull you
out of the same trap? I should have tied you to a chair, kept you
prisoner in Aglarond 'til Aragorn returned! I should have… I should
have hidden your sword!"

Legolas clasped his shoulder in mute understanding,
and the anger drained from Gimli as swiftly as it had come. His arm
fell, and he opened and closed his fist helplessly against his mailed
thigh.

"Take up your axe, Gimli, for you will need
it," Aragorn chided softly.

The Dwarf gave an apologetic grunt and bent to retrieve
his weapon from the grass.

Aragorn swept the ring of pale, tense faces turned
to his and said, "It seems likely that Boromir was taken by the
Uruk-hai. We know that some of their number escaped, under Uglúk's
command, and that he among all the Orcs of Middle-earth has the wit
to use Saruman's weapons against us. But still we do not know how
he came to possess them."

"There must be an unguarded way into Orthanc,"
Arahael said.

"Or Saruman kept his stores elsewhere,"
Aragorn amended. "The mountains about the Wizard's Vale are riddled
with tunnels and caves. Could they not have housed more than Orcs?"

"Treebeard sealed up many such caves to keep
the Orcs from returning to Isengard," Gimli said. "We Dwarves
helped him find them."

Aragorn regarded him thoughtfully, a smile tilting
his lips that had nothing of mirth in it. "Sealed them from without,
not from within. If Uglúk knew of the Wizard's stores, he might easily
have found and plundered them in the years since the fall of Isengard.
We have been fools, my friends. Fools to think that a band of Uruk-hai
would retreat tamely into exile, leaving behind a Wizard's hoard."

Elfhelm paled. "Will they attack Rohan, my lord?"

"I doubt they have the numbers, but I will not
play hazard with the lives of your people. We must take counsel with
Treebeard and find a way to burn out that nest of vermin once and
for all."

"Aragorn?" The King looked quickly to Legolas,
caught by the hopeful note in his voice. "Might not those tunnels
give us our door into the Orcs' realm? Gimli knows where they are,
and Fangorn has the skill to open them…"

Aragorn caught him by the arm, cutting off his words,
and whirled on the Rider. "Marshal Elfhelm, take your éored
and ride south with all speed to Orthanc! Tell Treebeard that King
Elessar begs this service of him, that he will find and open the passages
into the mountains. Gimli, my friend…"

"Nay, Aragorn, you need not even ask. I and
such of my Dwarves as can sit a horse will go south with the Rohirrim."

"Legolas, Faramir and I will remain here with
the Men of Ithilien and Gondor. We will continue the search for the
western door. Send word by your swiftest courier if you gain entrance
to the tunnels, and I shall do the same. If you hear not from me by
the third day after you reach Isengard, do not wait for me, but lead
your troops into the caves."

Gimli grasped Aragorn's forearm in a soldier's salute
and growled, "We will meet again in Uglúk's lair. Do not doubt
it."

"Go swiftly, my friend, and good fortune go
with you."

"And with you, my king." Gimli turned bright,
fierce eyes on Legolas and growled, "Farewell, Master Elf. Do
not forget what I have taught you of close fighting."

Legolas smiled. "I will not. Farewell, Gimli."

Then Dwarf and Rider were gone, hastening away to
summon their troops. Legolas watched them go until they had passed
out of the range of even his keen sight.

"Come, Legolas," Aragorn said at last.
"We have much ground to cover and fewer men with which to do
it."

With a slight sigh that Aragorn graciously forbore
to notice, Legolas shouldered his bow and turned to follow his king
into the trees.

*** *** ***

His leg would no longer move at his command. He could
not bend it save by digging his heel into the floor and shifting his
body forward, forcing his knee upward, while waves of agony coursed
through him like poison in his blood. He had to repeat the process
three times ere he was able to guide the manacle chain beneath his
heel and over his foot, but at last he managed it. With his left leg
through, he quickly pulled the right through as well and collapsed
back on the floor, shaking and breathless with pain.

The Orcs were still carousing, their voices carrying
loudly from the main cavern, sounding angry, restless, and oddly melancholy
to Boromir's ears. He heard snatches of tales, all hearkening back
to the glorious days of war and pillage under the standard of the
White Hand. Voices rose in bursts of rage or bitterness, as the Orcs
compared their life as soldiers of Orthanc to their squalid existence
as exiles beneath the mountains.

Boromir listened to their complaints, a humorless
smile upon his lips, and pushed himself away from the floor. He had
fitted the glass shard into one of his manacles, so he would not lose
it while he struggled to pull his feet through the chain. Now he worked
it free again, his fingers slipping on its smooth, hard surface.

The awkward blade had no dull edge to grasp, no place
where he might hold it without cutting himself. Tearing a strip from
his cloak, he bound it about his hand, then he turned the shard around
until he found a firm purchase on it and began sawing at his rope
tether. He had no very clear idea of what he would do, once he gained
his freedom, but he had vowed that he would not spend another day
tied like a beast in Uglúk's den, and Boromir of Gondor never broke
a vow.

Uglúk was shouting for more wine, trying to jolly
his lads out of their ill humor with promises of strong drink and
bloody victories to come. Boromir clutched his blade the tighter and
dug it all the harder into the thick, greasy rope, when he heard Uglúk
describe the plunder and feasting that awaited the Uruk-hai within
the pitiful fortresses of Men. They would burn out the horselords,
he assured the drunken troops, sack their villages, eat their young,
and set the able-bodied to labor at the rebuilding of Isengard. For
the Wizard's Vale would be theirs once more, and the Tree Demons banished
into the old forest or destroyed with axes and fire.

With a final cut of his blade, the rope parted and
Boromir was free at last. He thrust the glass shard back into the
manacle about his wrist, then he grasped the ring still sunk in the
wall and hauled himself to his feet. At his first step, his wounded
leg collapsed beneath him, pitching him to the floor and wrenching
a gasp of pain from him. He bit down hard on his tongue to stifle
the sound and lay rigidly still, straining his ears for some sign
that the Orcs had heard him.

They were quieting at last, falling into a stupor
of drink and cooling anger. Uglúk still moved among them, but his
voice had dropped from a shattering bellow to a rumble, and Boromir
could catch few of his words. The din was still loud enough to mask
his furtive noises, however, so after a few tense minutes, he ventured
to move again.

This time, he did not attempt to stand. He needed
a staff to support his weight and a weapon with which to defend himself,
and he hoped to find those things in the heaps of plunder Uglúk kept
at the back of the cave. Shifting awkwardly onto his hands and one
knee, Boromir half crawled, half dragged himself around the cold fire
pit in the center of the floor to the stacked arsenal.

He knew this cave as well as he knew his own chambers
in the Tower of Guard. He had never been free to explore it, but he
had listened to Uglúk prowl its confines often enough, and he remembered
where every crate, barrel and rusted piece of armor was stored. He
approached cautiously, testing the air before him to avoid spitting
himself on a spear in his haste, and finally felt rough metal under
his hands.

They were orcish weapons he found first, clumsy and
heavy-bladed, too large for Men to wield. Shifting to his left, he
encountered a stack of bows, their strings rotted, and bundles of
arrows now warped and useless. Still farther were helms, breastplates,
vambraces and greaves thrown into a heap together, leather and iron
and silver, all battered and dented by the blows that had crippled
or slain their wearers. And finally, propped against the wall with
their butts buried amongst the piled armor, he found lances.

He guided one free of the pile and set its steel-shod
foot firmly against the stone floor. Then, clutching it in both hands,
he used it to lever himself to his feet. The lance held his weight,
though it was slender and light, meant for throwing, not for use as
a crutch, and Boromir risked a step with its support. The familiar
agony of torn muscles and flesh washed through him, but his own strength
and the lance sufficed to keep him upright. He could walk, if not
very quickly, and now all that remained was to arm himself.

Boromir limped slowly along the wall, stopping to
investigate the contents of the pile every few steps. He knew, in
those practical parts of his mind that he chose to ignore for the
present, that he could not wield a sword while chained at the wrists
with a lance in one hand. Even without the lance, he would be badly
hampered by the chains, which gave him only a small range of movement.
But the soldier in him felt naked without a sword at his side.

Boromir's knee struck an object protruding from the
pile, and he halted yet again, sliding one hand down the shaft of
the spear to bring his free hand closer to the barrier in his path.
The Orcs in the outer cavern had fallen quiet, no sound but snores
carrying through the hide curtain, so the sudden crunch of booted
feet on stone seemed hideously loud in his ears. He froze in shock
for the space of a breath, then he snatched at the weapon under his
hand, not caring what it might be, as the curtain whipped aside and
Uglúk strode into the chamber.

The Orc halted just inside the door, as stunned as
Boromir by this unexpected meeting. Boromir whirled to face him, leaning
heavily on the lance when his leg buckled beneath him, and lifted
his unknown weapon. Uglúk started toward him at a full charge, a hissed
curse on his lips. Boromir leveled the weapon – an orcish dagger,
by the feel of it – to point at his onrushing enemy, but Uglúk swept
it aside with one blow of his hand, knocking it from Boromir's hand.
Another blow snapped the spear just below Boromir's fist, and he began
to fall.

Iron fingers closed about his throat, choking off
his breath and lifting his feet from the floor. Boromir struggled
in the Orc's grip, fighting the killing grip, while Uglúk shook him
like a child's toy. Boromir lifted both hands to claw at his massive
arms, only then realizing that he still held the business end of the
lance in one hand. The blade struck Uglúk in the side of the head,
bringing another curse from him and causing him to tighten his grip
still more fiercely.

"Chief?" The call, only dimly heard by
Boromir through the rushing of blood in his ears, came from just outside
the curtain. "Did you call for something?"

Boromir could feel strength and awareness slipping
away from him. He knew that he was dying, that Uglúk would squeeze
the life out of him in another moment, but when he heard the Orc's
voice snarling a curse at his curious lieutenant, a last, desperate
fury took him. He clutched the spear in both hands and, aiming directly
for Uglúk's voice, drove it forward with all his waning strength.

The curse turned to a gurgling sigh. Blood gushed
hot and foul over Boromir's hands. The fingers round his neck went
slack, and he sucked in a grateful breath, just as Uglúk, Captain
of the Fighting Uruk-hai, tumbled to the ground, dead. Helpless in
his grasp, Boromir fell with him.

To be continued…

*** *** ***

Author's Note: Before you all threaten me
with gruesome death for leaving you with this cliff-hanger, let me
say that I am working on Chapter 10 as we speak!! I know it's
a dreadful place to stop, but it was the only artistic breaking point
in a chapter that would otherwise have run much too long and been
very unwieldy. So I apologize, but I promise that the wait will not
be long. Honestly.